I’ll never forget the first time I met Bob’s dad. I had already met his mom one day when I
dropped by after school. She was a
short, slight Hispanic woman with dark wavy hair pulled back in a casual
ponytail. She was thirty six, and seemed
impossibly young to me. My mom was fifty
one and would never wear a tube top. I looked from her face to his, matching up the
features one by one: large, dark eyes, strong
noses, full mouths. He looked just like her. Based on this alone, I loved her immediately
and fiercely. It was automatic, like
breathing. And no matter how complicated
the relationship between her and I would grow over the years, there would
always be a small piece of my heart that still loved her, remaining hurt and
questioning. There is still.
As Bob introduced us, she swept over with a
dramatic, “Oh, Booker!” as she shot him an approving glance, before centering
herself directing in front of me, taking my face between her small, cool, brown
hands. Her eyes caught mine and held
them as she stated, “My son said you were beautiful, but my goodness! It’s so nice to meet you, Nick.” She called me by his name for me, the one no
one else in my life used, creating an instant bond. In a bare two seconds she had managed to
create a connection and to place me up on a high pedestal that I would do
anything to stay on.
After
a few minutes of watching their interactions, I confirmed what Bob had already
told me in private – he was indeed her favorite child, no apologies. She worshipped him. I had the immediate sense he would never be able
to do wrong in her eyes. I also sensed she
may be my only competition for his affections; he was the definition of a
momma’s boy. Little did I know at this
point that he had his reasons. The need to please Bob in order to please this
woman was instantly instilled in my heart.
I suppose most girls meeting their boyfriend’s mom wanted to make a good
impression. This was the next level.
Now meeting Bob’s dad was another world entirely. One Sunday evening, after church, I drove
over to pick him up. We went for a drive
(aka found somewhere to park and made out like the hot-blooded teenagers we
were). He seemed distracted, as unhappy
as I’d ever seen him in the few short months we’d been dating. Bob was always
“up”. His perpetual cheerfulness,
playful nature, and constant banter were some of the things that most attracted
me to him. He relished in doling out
nicknames, singing snatches of songs, and peppering conversation with lyrics
that were meaningful to him. He created
scripts and rituals; he had an uncanny knack for building intimacy. The closer
to him I felt, the more I wanted to please him.
I had never seen him like that,
sad and low. Even his kiss felt
different, fraught with something darker than desire. I pulled away. “What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“Nothing. It’s
nothing, I just really needed to get out of my house tonight. I don’t wanna talk about it.” he said, reaching across the seat to resume
kissing me instead. The subject was
closed.
When our little rendezvous came to a close, I drove him
home. We didn’t play our usual game of
kissing at every red light, he just didn’t seem in the mood. He lived near the church in a small house
that was a little more modest than my parents.
“Damn it, he’s still home.” he
muttered, catching sight of the pickup in the drive. No sooner were the words out of his mouth,
than an angry man, red-faced and yelling, burst through the front door of his
house, waving a shotgun. “Get the hell
off my property!”
My jaw dropped. I
looked at Bob who looked as though he wanted to crawl inside himself and
disappear. He opened the car door and
stepped out, holding an arm up in supplication like a common criminal caught in
some illegal act rather than a son simply returning home from a date with his
girlfriend. “Dad, it’s just me and
Nick. Put that away.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, you little shit. This is my fucking house and I”ll do whatever
the fuck I want to. Now tell that bitch
to get out of here.” he gestured in my general direction with the shotgun. I froze, unsure of the proper response. Should I duck? I stole a quick glance of a stocky man, maybe
early forties, whose blond hair was starting to gray and stuck up wildly in
every direction.
Bob leaned in the open car door. “You’d better go. He’s drunk again.” he said it tonelessly, but his face was full
of resentment. And was that hate? He didn’t have to tell me twice, I had the
car in reverse before he’d even shut the door, telling me he loved me, to drive
careful, and he’d call to make sure I made it home safe. He was worried about my safety?
I drove away from the house slowly, not wanting to look
but unable to stop myself from rubbernecking as if this were a grisly
accident. It some ways, maybe it
was. Bob looked ever smaller as he
climbed the steps to enter the house, his dad much taller in comparison,
louder, obviously drunk, and wielding a weapon.
I was too stunned to cry, but suddenly it was hard to swallow. Shaken, I turned the car toward home.
Bob never told me what his dad was upset about that
night, but in time I learned this was a regular occurrence at his house. This problem solving style was so different
from my parents; it was like visiting another planet, and observing aliens. My mom and dad had drawn the lines in their
relationship, too. But their picture
looked a lot different. My dad loved her
deeply. My mom liked to be in
control. So whatever her wish, he simply
bent to her will. I didn’t think less of
him; I thought more. Her happiness was
everything to him. He knew about
sacrifice. There weren’t many arguments
at my house that I remember growing up. Maybe
one or two. Once and awhile my dad would
put his foot down against the onslaught of requests my mom dealt out on the
daily, just to remind her that he bent to her will because he wanted to, not
because he had to. She would grumble,
never conceding his point, but retreating ever so slightly. After a short time, they would return to
their accustomed positions on the chessboard, the queen ruling all.
On the drive home, I tried to process what I had
witnessed. Older, wiser, looking back, I
should have run for the hills. But I was
sixteen and in love. What I saw made me
feel sorry for Bob. It made me want to
love him enough to make up for whatever horrible things were happening to him
at home. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more
in life but to get him out of that house and into a safe home with me, without
shouting and without shotguns. I would
treat him the way he deserved to be treated.
As I
pulled into my own driveway, I saw the one predictable lamp on in the living
room- my parents were waiting up for me.
Inside, my mother would be watching a movie of the week, while my dad
read a book, most likely The Bible, in his favorite armchair. They moved around each other in a subtle and
graceful dance of routine, perfected over the years… her leading, him
following. The house would be quiet, all
the sounds predictable ones. Screaming
voices came only from the tv. We didn’t
own a firearm; my father was a pacifist.
Above
all, it was a safe place. I had never
thought of myself as lucky to have this.
It just was. It would be a
couple of years and many conversations in the dark of night, my head nestled
against Bob’s shoulder, watching the shadows play on the walls while he told me
about his childhood before I realized just how lucky I was. Not everyone had it like that. But it did occur to me, as I turned the
doorknob to my parents’ house, that I hadn’t seen his mom. She hadn’t come out of the house, not even to
see who her husband was yelling at or what was happening outside. That struck me as slightly odd, and many
years later when I revisited that night with new and jaded eyes, it put a chill
up my spine.
But
at sixteen, I was strictly a surface thinker, just like most teenagers. I was only worried about how his dad’s
behavior made him feel. I had no clue
that his dad’s behavior, what he’d grown up watching ever since he could
remember, might profoundly influence his own.
I haven’t missed the mark so badly before or since.
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